Cold Outside
by mangochi
Summary: John's heater breaks down and he calls on the only person that can help.


**A/N: Time for my routine dump of AO3 stuff! In recognition of the arctic freeze North America's currently undergoing, have some grumpy old man cuddle fluff. I wrote this while freezing my bum off, because sadly I don't have a personal Dorian.**

**Someone come cuddle with me until spring -sobs-**

* * *

Dorian presses the buzzer and waits, head tilted slightly as he waits for John to answer. Six seconds pass without response, and he's raising his hand again when the door is abruptly wrenched open. He's suddenly confronted by the undeniably alarming sight of what he eventually assumes to be John, albeit a John heavily wrapped in a comforter and what appears to be several layers of outerwear.

"Oh, thank God," John says fervently upon seeing Dorian, and a hand heavily muffled by an overlong sweater sleeve darts out to hook Dorian's arm by the elbow. "Come in, damn it, it's freezing out there." Dorian blinks, shaking himself from his brief reverie, and he steps obligingly over the threshold as John slams the door shut against the elements and locks it with an accompaniment of ill-mannered mutters.

"What's wrong, John?"

"What's_ wrong_? It's _freezing_, Dorian!" John looks at him incredulously, his pale skin shadowed beneath his eyes and an unfortunate dribble starting up in his reddened nose. "My climate control's shot to hell, the whole block's been having power issues lately. And with this damn arctic front-" he interrupts himself with a violent sneeze that doubles him over, and Dorian watches with mingled sympathy and curiosity as John straightens doggedly again.

"I'm cold," John says unnecessarily, with as much dignity as he can apparently muster, and he glares at Dorian as if daring him to argue.

"You are," Dorian says instead, switching to his thermal scanner with a blink. "In fact, you're verging on hypothermia," he adds helpfully.

"Oh, great, that's a comfort," John grumbles, and he shuffles miserably past Dorian into the living room. "C'mere."

Dorian follows, wondering if John called him from Rudy's place to simply complain about his physical suffering, and watches as John sits with difficulty on his couch. There's a single heater six inches away from the man on the floor, an outdated model that makes odd clanking noises as Dorian cautiously approaches and gives off erratic splutters of musty hot air.

"Sit," John commands, unwrapping himself enough from his self-imposed prison and flapping the corner of his comforter threateningly at Dorian. Dorian contemplates his admittedly few options, then perches gingerly on the indicated seat cushion.

"John, why am I here?" he asks, eyeing the decrepit heater skeptically. "I doubt it's for the conversation."

"No," John agrees, and he manages to surprise Dorian by sliding closer and opening his comforter, wrapping his arms around Dorian's torso in what can only be described as a bear hug. Dorian sits stiffly, trying to compute the unexpected maneuver as John buries his face against Dorian's shoulder and attempts to plaster himself along his side. "God, that's better," comes the muffled groan, and Dorian is finally able to speak.

"What are you doing?"

John ignores him, pulling his knees up onto the couch and shuffling closer on the sagging cushions. "Hey, raise your temp a bit, will you?"

Dorian blinks. Blinks again. "I'm not your personal heater."

The man mumbles something utterly unintelligible, and Dorian sighs. He turns his torso towards John, ignoring his belligerent protests as Dorian gently pushes him away and rearranges himself so that he's reclining against the arm of the couch, one foot on the floor and the other leg sprawled on the couch. "Come here," Dorian says resignedly, opening his arms expectantly.

John stares down at him, looking suddenly hesitant despite his earlier enthusiasm. His hair is mussed and tousled by restless sleep, no doubt the product of an inadequate heating system, the comforter hanging off one shoulder and three different sweaters peeking through his collar. Dorian gestures again, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "Well? Come to Papa."

"Good God," John grumbles, but he comes obediently, curling up against Dorian's chest. His head tucks neatly beneath Dorian's chin, and Dorian pets at the rumpled hair absently with one hand, wrapping his other arm securely around John's padded form.

"You're kind of ridiculous, man," he comments after a moment of steadily increasing his body temperature until John's shivering has finally stilled. "Felled by a broken heater."

"Shut up," John rumbles, his voice vibrating against Dorian's chestplate, and he melts a little further as Dorian gives another wave of heat. "Oh, that's good…" he mutters, pressing his face blindly into Dorian's shirt.

"You know," Dorian continues, as if John hadn't interrupted, "Rudy's great and all, but if I was staying here instead…you wouldn't have had to freeze your ass off all night."

John thumps his side halfheartedly, and Dorian smiles bemusedly to himself. "Thanks," he thinks he hears, muffled against fabric and cotton, and he hums in satisfaction, emanating pulsing waves of carefully moderated heat until he detects John slipping into the first ebbs of sleep.

"Love you too," he says then, to no one in particular, and he keeps John warm until he falls asleep.


End file.
